


Intervention From On High

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Prayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times the Olympians physically intervened in the lives of My Chemical Romance members, and one time they didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intervention From On High

Gerard didn’t think he’d get an answer, but it never hurt to try. After something so tragic many of the Olympians must have been busy. There was Ares for war and those needing revenge, acts of terrorism by far in his domain. Those that were still sifting through the rubble called upon Athena for heroic endeavours, hoping both that they could still find survivors, and that the dust wasn’t ruining their lungs too badly. Hermes was the god of choice for two groups, the few that wanted this settled with diplomacy -Gerard knew that Hermes would never win over Ares, not in this issue- and the shallow that only wanted travel reinstated, airspace reopened.

And then there was Zeus, for everyone that wanted answers. Gerard was one. With the sound of the towers still rattling in his ears, Breakfast Monkey suddenly seemed a lot less meaningful. Surely Zeus must know what he was to do with his life, how he could make a difference.

So he prayed. He knelt beside his computer desk and built a quick shrine for Zeus, lightning bolt fabric with a few scattered eagle feathers, sky blue candle burning bright. The white rat’s neck snapped with no difficulty at all, and laid beside the candle it made for a decent offering. Then he settled, ass on the backs of his ankles, and began to talk to Zeus. Gerard was only one voice in the world, but maybe he would be the one Zeus chose to answer.

When he began to drift off, he kept his eyes closed instead of struggling back to wakefulness. Oftentimes the gods and goddesses spoke through dreams, trying to push the sudden exhaustion away might foil his only chance for an answer. It wasn’t a dream based epiphany that woke him though. Instead Gerard woke to a series of semi-sharp blows. Opening his eyes revealed a scatter of CDs around him; the music tower beside his computer toppled. For a moment he was frustrated, he’d had a system. Then the real meaning of the event occurred to him. CDs. Music. Music could change lives, if only he could put himself in a situation in which he could share music with others. Zeus’ answer was obvious; he needed to start a band.

*

Frank wasn’t really sure how to pray to Ares. It wasn’t that he was an atheist. Nobody he knew was, it was a difficult position to maintain when those denying the Olympians existence tended to get smote in a variety of painful and gruesome ways. It’s just the god of war, bloodlust, and violence had never really had much to offer him.

He and Jamia prayed to Athena for confidence that Skeleton Crew would work, as goddess of handicrafts she understood their aims more than Hermes did by being patron of business. Every couple asked for guidance from Aphrodite after a fight, except for the few that called on Hera, the far more nasty goddess of marriage. And everyone he knew tossed the occasional prayer to Zeus; it didn’t bode well for a pleasant future if there wasn’t occasional acknowledgement of the king of the gods that controlled fate.

When it came to individual interests, Jamia invoked Hestia every time she started to make a meal and Frank of course had Apollo. Like the vast majority of the world, they both believed in autonomy. Everything she made was guaranteed to be delicious, and they both knew it was less because of Hestia and more because Jamia was fucking bitchin’ with a wok. None of them wanted to be struck down, but Frank was confident that even as an atheist band My Chemical Romance would have succeeded. It was just polite to reference the patrons of things important to oneself.

But now Frank needed more than politeness, he needed a direct opinion. Ares was also for masculinity and courage, and Frank needed to figure out what the hell he was doing. The so-called ‘fans’ kept screaming _faggot_ , and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. Gerard was, he smeared makeup on the entire band, and groped Frank to piss the audience off. The problem was different for Frank. He found himself a little too interested, and that had to stop.

Ares didn’t say anything, and Frank wasn’t really expecting him too. Ares wasn’t known for _talking_. But later that night when one of the crowd called it out, Frank found himself slipping his guitar off and diving into the crowd, body compelled even as his brain screamed to know what he was doing. Apparently Ares’ solution was violent beatings.

*

Ray was in love with Melanie. He couldn’t imagine loving someone more, or spending a moment more than he had to away from her. Being in a popular band made that harder, of course. It was hard to end every night with an _I love you_ when you were in a bus in Europe, somewhere between timezones. But he wanted to be with her, even if sometimes she didn’t pick up when he called after a show. All he needed was a blessing.

There was no sense in asking his parents for it. After an unfortunate dinner his parents asked him to never bring her again. Nor did the guys seem to really like her, although Frank had told him to go with his heart, an unreadable look on his face. In the end there was really only one thing he could do; build a shrine to Hera and asked for a sign. Hera responded with a much higher frequency to women, but she was the goddess of marriage. Surely she would let her opinion be known.

Her answer was, as it always was, succinct. First there was a sharp pain to his face, like an invisible slap. Then the room -or his head, it was impossible to tell- was filled a voiceless roar that translated to ‘don’t be stupid’ even as his eardrums both popped and sent him to his knees in pain.

*

The truth was, making the album wasn’t fun. The Black Parade was a brilliant concept, pushing at the boundaries of being offensive to Hades without -at least in their opinion- crossing that line irrevocably. Mikey was proud of the idea. He wanted it to work, an outcome which seemed less and less likely each day. Gerard was having nightmares. He didn’t much talk about them, but he’d gone through three sketchbooks already, it wasn’t difficult to figure out. Frank wasn’t eating much, a few spoons of cereal for breakfast, half a vegeburger for dinner. And Bob reeked, saying that every time he went to use his bathtub all the hot water was gone. To put it bluntly, everyone was miserable.

Mikey was hardly the only one with the opinion, everyone agreed life in the Paramour was miserable. At a loss for what else to do, they’d all bowed to their Apollo shrines. They’d even combined their five small portable, roadworthy shrines into a large one for the centre of the living room. The longer the days went on though, the more convinced Mikey was that it was the wrong strategy. They _were_ creating music, after all; each individually composing possible chords and beats and then successfully bringing it all together. That was Apollo’s domain, and it was working fine. What they _weren’t_ doing was having fun. There was only one deity to call on for that.

Three days later the only option left to him was keeping his eyes closed, layer upon layer of blankets -all the spares he could find- weighing him down safely. Since childhood he’d been forgetful, but not normally to this level of negative consequences. Forgetting Dionysus was not only the the god of parties and pleasure, but insanity, rivaled only the space heater balanced on the rim of the bathtub in the competition for stupid moves. And if the uncontrollable anguish and seeing spirits continued it would quickly win first spot.

*

When you were in a popular band there was a spectrum of enjoyment. Bob loved playing, the rhythm channeling through his arms before being expelled onto the drums. He loved the guys, it hadn’t taken long for them to become a second family. He liked the joy of the fans pre/during/post concert, even if he wasn’t the most vocal at signings. And he liked everything the band stood for, regardless of other people’s bullshit opinions.

There were, however, a few things he disliked. The heavy costume that only got heavier and incredibly itchy with sweat was one. The occasional ache of his wrists was another. Most of what he didn’t like boiled down to cameras shoved in his face, whether from interviews or music videos, he didn’t care. Nothing good had come from interviews lately, and music videos were always annoying. That’s why in a way it wasn’t really a surprise when the set lit up and his leg went up too.

It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt. It hurt like a bastard, actually. It was just for two minutes it had to not matter. They didn’t have the time, equipment, or money to repeat the stunt. And then filming was over, and Mikey shouted “Holy shit Bob’s on fire!” and everyone in the building seemed to run over. The last thing he heard before he passed out was _must have pissed off Hephaestus_. Bob would have argued, but he was too busy trying to shove away the blackness swiftly coming over him.


End file.
